Weekend with Death by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

forward, watching intently. It was hardly a movement. There was a quivering. She thought, “One of them is pushing it—” and then, “No—it’s pushing them.” And even as the words came into her mind, the thing really was moving, with the up and down, to and fro motion of a clumsily handled pencil. The hands went with it—they did not appear to guide it. The pencil attachment ran off the edge of the paper and stopped. Morgan Cattermole dropped his hands from the board as if they found it hot.
    â€œLook here, I don’t like this. But you were pushing it, Jo—you were, weren’t you?”
    She looked up, flustered and scandalized.
    â€œOh, no—of course not! Morgan, dear —that would be cheating!”
    â€œYou didn’t push it? Honest injun?”
    â€œOh, no.”
    â€œWell, that’s a queer start. If it was anyone else, I’d say you were having me on.”
    The tears came into Joanna’s eyes. She flushed painfully.
    â€œMorgan— dear !”
    He laughed and patted her hand.
    â€œDon’t be silly, old dear. You’re O.K.—I know that. I only said if it was anyone else.”
    For the first time Sarah came somewhere near liking him, or at any rate to understanding why Joanna liked him. They really did seem fond of one another.
    He laughed now and picked up the sheet of paper with its trail of scrawled writing.
    â€œHere—let’s see what we’ve got. String of rubbish it looks like to me— a, b — ab … b, a — ba … like a kid’s spelling-book.… Hullo, here’s a word—‘ bark ’. Does your smuggler keep a dog, Jo? ‘ Bark — beach — tar — boots — sand —’ And that’s where we ran off the paper. It doesn’t turn a corner very pretty. Here, let’s have another go and take the long way of the paper.”
    Joanna beamed.
    â€œI knew you would be interested once you made a start! You see, he’s just trying to get through—that’s what makes it rather disjointed. But if we persevere he may come right through, and that would be so marvellous. And bark wouldn’t be anything to do with a dog, dear. It’s just one of those old-fashioned words for a boat—the mariner’s barque, you know.”
    The board was set again. This time the movement started at once. With no preliminary tremor, it seemed to run away, reaching the paper’s edge almost as quickly as if the pencil had been driven by a practised hand.
    Sarah watched, not the hands, but the faces. Joanna’s blank—eyes fixed, lips parted. Morgan’s interested now, but with a strange look of uneasiness. She thought, “He’s like a schoolboy doing something he knows he oughtn’t to—and rather enjoying it.”
    The board stopped. He picked up the paper and read from it:
    â€œâ€˜ Night — dark—fog — case — night—fog —’”
    Joanna woke up.
    â€œOh, that’s quite new! He’s trying to tell us about landing the cases of rum—only he’s always called them kegs before. And the fog is new. Do, pray, let us go on!”
    Sarah became aware that her feet were cold—icy cold. How wretchedly silly— dark—fog — case .… For a moment she was back in the cold, narrow waiting-room listening to Miss Emily Case whilst the fog thickened the blank window-panes and a man’s footsteps went to and fro outside in the dark. Fog — dark — case —and even as the words were in her thought, Morgan Cattermole had picked up the paper again and was reading them aloud:
    â€œâ€˜ Fog — dark — case —’ Hullo! Oh, he’s repeating himself.… No—here’s something new: ‘ Where is it —’ And he’s written it twice, only it’s slipped off the edge a bit at the end. Come on—he’s getting going now. What